


thoughts & prayers

by sunsleeping



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Unspecified POV, Vent tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 08:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20757011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsleeping/pseuds/sunsleeping
Summary: A study in perception, from before til after the end.





	thoughts & prayers

Angels aren't beings of goodness, eternal love, or la joie. The light of heaven isn't warm, nor cold. Angels are pure. Heaven is pure, in the most objective lens.

Much as humanity might try to replicate the purity of the heavens, they are always doomed to fail. This isn't a bad thing, though.

Heaven isn't good. Heaven is pure. Purity is of utmost importance to the Host. Nothing can mar the heavenly purity.

Blessings are acts condoned by the Host. They aren't always good or for the better. They follow the Host's direction, always. This is what Heaven is, what it has always been.

Crumbling, you've always seen it. Burning, freezing, the oxygen ripped from your lungs as you fall. Down, down, and the pressure's increasing. Why couldn't you fall into the stars, the endless abyss, instead? Why must you fall down to the grounds that you'll be expected, from hereon out, to curse?

Hell is almost as subjective as Heaven, but not really. Selfishness is expected by the highest, though its gravitational center is that and yet contrarily, all else instead.

Those denied, those who have hurt, and those who have been hurt occupy Hell. The body count is always on Hell's hands, and in retaliation, Hell accepts this.

The eternal rebel is silent, except when they're not. They never are; not truly. Though their hands may be still and their eyes closed, their breathing slow, they are awake and active in every waking being, l'appel du vide. 

You're falling, but surely, that must be how it's supposed to be. The plan is ineffable. The Host is ineffable. The Heavens are ineffable. Hell is ineffable.

But you're just pretending to be human. Human, with a million eyes and a body only corporeal as you determine it should be.

You might even be dead, truly. No one has come after you, from either Heaven or Hell, so surely, you think that you must be.

If you're not an angel, and you're no longer a devil, and they're no longer an angel, but they're no longer a devil, then what are either of you? You breathe. Your heart is beating.

You're still not human. You're incorporeal, yet more real than the world around you could ever seem. You have a form.

There's something haunting the library. You're not sure if it's you. How can it be you if you're corporeal?

Which is why you drag the tips of your fingers over every crack between every door and its frame, why you draw the blinds of every window tight. The light seeping from them is made up of eyes. You know that it isn't, but it is.

They're watching you.

Cooped up even when you're free to wander, on your own time, you begin to pace. Idle activities don't have the same draw, don't not-distract so wondrously, don't--.

They're there, too, but they're also not. Maybe they're the ghost, after all, not you. Are you both haunting? But you're both corporeal.

It isn't possible for a living being to haunt in this manner, you hope. You know better.

Someone died here. That was you. It was them, too. You're both alive. Alive and well, to your visitors. Interactions are interesting, the art of passing.

So much good could be done if you would only just wake up, but you're still falling. You're not sure how or why. What is falling, really? You're an umbrella for another as much as you stand beneath it. Physics never quite described whatever you must be, anyway.

Thinking about good won't fix anything. What can you do? There's so much you can do. The light is eyes. You don't move.

Something's gone wrong with your system. It always has been, at least, the signs have always been there. They were microscopic, but they all tie together in the end. 

Fuck correlation.

The light is still eyes, but you're learning to live in it. You used to. The light is eyes and eyes can see. You don't want to be perceived. You could achieve that, if you really wanted, but you also desire this perception; without being, you lose your sanctuary.


End file.
